


Set Up For Failure

by spockandawe



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Computer Programming, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Gift Exchange, Headaches & Migraines, M/M, Painplay, Robots, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-21 18:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sollux gets one of his headaches, tender care would be the province of a matesprit or moirail. Despite this, there are things that his kismesis can do to help him along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bettername](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bettername/gifts).



> So this is going in the pinch hit section because it doesn't quiiite live up to what your prompt asked for. I had a lovely idea for a scenario, but I was totally blocked on where to take the sex scene. So here's the setup, leading right to where the things turn sexy, and even though it doesn't fill your prompt exactly, I thought it was a nice little equisol thing you might enjoy.
> 
> EDIT: Oops, there went the inspiration! This is now the sexually explicit piece that I originally had in mind.
> 
> [Tumblr link](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/85581439956/set-up-for-failure-spockandawe-homestuck-archive)

                This is one of his bad days. He knocks your workshop door half off its hinges with a blast of uncontrolled psi, and stumbles over to the couch Nepeta insisted you purchase. His hands are pressed against his eyes and his horns are giving off erratic sparks. You pull the door entirely free of the frame and prop it against a wall, then carefully smother a corner of the couch that is beginning to smoke. Sollux mutters something that sounds a little like ‘sorry’ and a little like ‘ _fuck._ ’

                “Another migraine?”

                “No, just— _shit_. Voices. There’s too many voices.”

                “Those about to die?”

                He nods, still kneading at his eyes with the heels of his hands, and rolls over to bury his face in the back of the couch. “Something big. Don’t know what. Haven’t heard anyone I know.” He laughs, though you wince to hear it. “Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll hear myself.”

                When you ask if there is anything you can do for him, all you get is the slightest twitch of his shoulder. After a minute of silence, you offer to fetch him a glass of water, and he says some exceedingly unpleasant things about your probable ancestry.

                From past experience you are well aware that it will do you no good to push him harder right now. You swallow the urge to tell him to try to sleep through the disaster and dim all lights except your desk lamp before you return to your workbench. You wait a suitable amount of time before taking any further action, because you are no fool, and neither is Sollux. You continue working on your current project for some minutes before setting it aside and standing to retrieve your latest prototype.

                As you walk past the couch, you take the time to take a closer look at him. He has his face buried in a pillow, but he’s breathing too fast and shallow to be asleep. His horns have ceased sparking, but you can still faintly smell ozone. When you place your robot on the workbench and connect it to your husktop, you are careful to arrange them so that your work is visible from where he lies. Before beginning, you open the chassis and exchange a few key components for near-identical parts from an inconspicuous, unmarked drawer.

                You are quiet enough that you will not wake him if he does manage to sleep, but loud enough to catch his attention if he wishes to notice. You tap away at your keyboard, occasionally sighing heavily. You do _not_ turn around when you hear him roll over. When you feel the pressure of his eyes on you, you groan and stretch, patting your face down with a towel as you stare at the screen. You type several lines, sigh, and delete a long block of text.

                “The fuck are you even trying to do?”

                “Nothing of importance. Simply testing my new prototype.”

                “Yeah, that’s going well. I could tell by the way it’s not doing anything.”

                You wave a dismissive hand at him. “Do not concern yourself.”

                Of course, the simplest way to persuade Sollux Captor to do anything is to tell him not to do it. He’s into your personal space in a flash, leaning over your computer and bumping your horn with his elbow until you give up and lean away. You reach absentmindedly for another towel as he scrolls up and down through your code.

                “What kind of language is this?”

                “I’ve always found it to be quite suitable—“

                “I’m switching it to ~ATH. Move over.”

                “Considering that I do not _program_ in ~ATH, I see no reason to—“

                He snorts and jostles you again with his elbow. “That’s because you’re the worst fucking programmer that I’ve ever seen in my life. Move over.”

                You make some show of reluctance as you surrender your seat. “Forgive me if I decline to take the insult personally, as I have seen you refer to every troll in our mutual acquaintance as the worst programmer you’ve ever seen.”

                He snickers as he runs his hands over the keyboard. “Ehehe, well maybe KK is the _actual_ worst. But you’re working with the actual best here. Give me a minute to change whatever kind of shitty syntax you’ve been using, and I’ll have this robot working.” He cracks his knuckles and promptly begins ignoring you.

                You set yourself up with another project some distance down the workbench. It is nothing important, just something to tinker with while you watch his progress. He’s already modifying your interface program, and you are thankful that you thought to back it up in its original state before you allowed him to use your husktop. It isn’t long at all before he decides he’s solved the problem, and he’s grinning widely as he types.

                “Hey, EQ. I think this robot wants to tell you what it thinks about your programming.”

                You turn to watch and put on a polite smile as the robot’s legs slowly bend. “Yes?”

                Sollux is glaring at the robot. “What? No, that’s not— _fuck._ ” He types furiously, then looks up again. The robot bends at the waist until it begins to topple forward. You catch it, carefully, and set it back on the workbench.

                “I do apologize, but this is a difficult project. Perhaps I should—”

                He merely flips you off and goes back to typing. He doesn’t tell you again when he thinks he has reached a solution, but it is obvious enough every time he stops typing and turns to watch the robot. You, of course, are far too tactful to call attention to his difficulties. Eventually, you rise to fetch yourself a glass of milk, and are considerate enough to bring him back a glass of water. He tosses it back in one gulp and demands that you bring him one of the energy drinks he insists on storing in your thermal hull.

                By the time you return, he has exchanged your husktop for his own. You note, with only a trace of smugness, that he has abandoned ~ATH and is using the program’s original language. He’s too absorbed in the work to even notice the dents you accidentally left in the can when you set it down. As you tinker and he programs, you are much too polite to notice the increasingly furious glares that are directed towards you. Finally, he curses and reaches for the robot itself.

                You make some show of surprise. “I am sorry. If you don’t feel up to it, you need not bother. It takes some skill to work with robotics.”

                He flips you off with both hands before he returns to dismantling your robot. You catch some fragments of ‘if assholes could be bothered to use _apiculture’_ and ‘might as well rewrite the program from fucking _scratch,_ ’ and hide your smile behind your hair as you bend down to your work.

                When he calls you over to make you check for misconnected wires, you carefully go over the entire robot and inform him that everything appears to be correct. He demands to know how he can get different responses for the same code, and when you tell him that the programming is challenging and that he should put it out of his mind, he curses at you so inventively that Vantas would be proud.

                It is interesting to watch him become angrier and angrier, but when he finally stomps off across the workshop and returns bearing another robot, the game is nearly over. It obeys all of his commands perfectly, of course. He dismantles them both in short order, and by the time he compares the two processors and finds your… _alterations_ , he’s so furious that he’s leaving scorch marks on the workbench.

                He hauls you up by the front of your shirt, until the two of you have left the ground and he’s holding both of you in midair. You break out into a sweat as sparks swirl around you and leave little smoking holes in your clothing.

                “You absolute fucking shithead,” he snarls. “You _set me up to fail_ , you miserable _asshole_.”

                It takes a moment to parse his words through the lisp and with sparks buzzing in your ears, but even just his expression makes you shiver all over. You still keep your face cool and distant as you reply, “It was meant to be a moment’s distraction. The simple randomization of any input. The lack of repeatability should have made it obvious. Forgive me for failing to realize that programming knowledge would translate so poorly into practical skill.”

                Everything is teeth and sparks and for a moment you think he might go for your throat, but he’s kissing you, savage and vicious, until you taste your own blood on his lips. His claws are practically shredding your shirt, and he’s holding you pinned in place with his psi, helpless. When he finally pulls back, you’re dizzy and breathless, but you manage, “The voices?”

                There is a frozen moment, then he deflates all at once, and his expression is distant as you drift to the floor. “…Gone. It must be over.” It is effortless to step back and remove his claws. Without his psi in play, he cannot hope to hold you if you do not wish him to.

                The air between you is softening, growing almost tender, so you take the opportunity to say, “Forgive me, but I believe this kismesissitude was founded on the grounds that I would not be forced to hold the upper hand in terms of both physical _and_ mental abilities. This rivalry— If you can even call it that anymore—”

                He snaps back to himself in a flash, his psi forcing you to your knees on the stone floor, and his lips and teeth on you in a dizzying rush of pain. There’s blood dripping down your chin by the time he pulls away, and you lick your lips, leaning forward to follow him as he draws back. His claws leave your shoulders and he breaks contact entirely, grinning down as you struggle to move, pinned in place with his powers. “Ehehe, you’re right, it’s not much rivalry if one of us can’t able to keep up mentally or physically. I can tell that you have the upper hand by the way you’re able to do jack shit right now.”

                “Psionic ability is a weak substitute for physical strength, and you have yet to show tonight that you are _half_ as intelligent as you claim to be.”

                He grins down at you and shakes his head. “Very true.” You feel yourself break into a sweat as he pauses. “I hope you weren’t planning to do anything the rest of the night, because we’re going to see if, despite my sad little shriveled-up thinkpan, I can figure out a good way to punish you.”


	2. Chapter 2

                He circles you, slowly, and though you do your best to follow him with your eyes, he has you pinned so thoroughly that you are unable to move your head. The silence stretches for so long that you jump when he finally speaks.

                “Maybe I didn’t hear you right, but that sure sounded like ‘Ooh Mister Captor please reduce me to a quivering pile of slurry. Please turn me into such a wreck that my pan can’t even string two words together.’ Go ahead and tell me if I’m wrong.”

                Out of curiosity, you attempt to move your jaw. Of course you cannot.

                “But don’t worry, I’ll be sure to prove I’m good enough to be your kismesis—Not that I expect _that_ to be any sort of high standard. And now, to prove my intelligence for my most _worthy_ of rivals, Sollux Captor and the case of the missing bulge.”

                A twitch of his hand, and your shorts fall from your legs in smoking shreds. Another small gesture, and his psionics spread your legs— almost _too_ open. You hiss in pain, and find he has released his hold on your jaw. “Pray tell, how does it feel to have a speech impediment that leaves you unable to pronounce your own name?”

                “Simplistic _and_ petty. Wow, I don’t know the fuck I’ll manage to out-think someone like that. Not everyone can hope to land a kismesis that trash talks like a two-sweep pupa. You know, I think this relationship may be what’s wrong with my self-esteem.”

                “I believe what is wrong with your self-esteem is a painful— and accurate— assessment of your own _many_ failings—”

                He shoves his fingers in your mouth, and although you can feel the buzzing of his psi, you attempt to bite him. It is like biting steel. One of your teeth has certainly chipped, _just_ as the missing ones were starting to grow back in. Sollux is laughing.

                “Yeah, no. Do you seriously think I’m so dumb I won’t see through this shit? I’m not here to indulge your dumbass power fantasy and play the upstart lowblood putting the highblood in his place. We’re not playing needle-Sollux-until-he-snaps-and-takes-you-to-fucking-pieces, we’re still on the hunt for the asshole boyfriend’s missing bulge.” He kneels between your legs and puts his free hand on your thigh. “I think we’ll start our search where the bulge was seen last. Watch out, we’re about to get all Sherle Kolmes up in this bitch.”

                He pulls his fingers from your mouth and bends forward, so close that you can feel his breath against your skin. You cannot help an involuntary shiver, and you feel your sheath begin to dilate. “I believe this mystery could be solved very easily through the simple application of basic reproductive schoolfeeds. Or did your lusus fail to teach you about the musclebeasts and the bees?”

                “Shhh.” He waves a vague hand at you. “I’m _deducing_.”

                You are entirely unsure what to expect, so you are taken completely by surprise when he plunges two fingers into your sheath. On reflex, you try to jerk away, but he has you pinned. He probes even deeper, and finally grips the tip of your bulge. He begins to haul it out, inch by agonizing inch. You attempt to writhe without being properly able to _move_ , and gasp, “Stop, _stop_.”

                He freezes and looks up, but when he sees your face he grins from ear to ear. “Now you know that’s not what you’re supposed to say if you want me to _actually_ stop. Come on asshole, use your words if you can't take it.”

                Your face is burning, but you purse your lips and stare determinedly straight ahead.

                “Well, I’m not such a fucker that I won’t listen when my boyfriend asks me to stop. He wants the bulge in, the bulge can stay in.” Before you can say a word, he’s stuffing your bulge back into its sheath, fingers and psionics that vibrate against you just hard enough to cross from pleasure into pain. You try your hardest to thrash, to curl forward around yourself or to pull away from him, but as hard as you struggle, he holds you motionless. You’ll be a mess of bruises tomorrow. Even when he moves back, the psionics remain in place, holding your bulge trapped.

                “So your bulge is off the table. I can respect that. But whoa hey what’s this dripping hole here?”

                You are absolutely _mortified_ to realize your nook _is_ dripping, in a very literal way. When he runs his fingers around the edges, the barest hint of claws against your skin, you shiver and a noise escapes you that could very nearly be called a moan. He sniggers. “Wow, EQ, try to have a little dignity.”

                He bends forward, keeping eye contact with you, and his tongue stretches out past his lips, and you are frozen and disbelieving because he may be a shameless lowblood nothing, but there are _limits_ —And he licks a trail through the slurry on your thighs. You very nearly gasp ‘Please—’ before you stop yourself, but you can _tell_ he noticed from the smug smile on his face.

                “Go ahead, you can tell me to stop. What kind of kismesis would I be if I didn’t let you admit you just can’t handle what I dish out?”

                Your face is flaming but you manage to keep your voice calm when you reply, “I believe that ‘kismesis’ has three instances of the letter ‘s,’ and I haven’t heard a single one from you yet.”

                He pats your leg and laughs. “Yeah, it’s definitely good that you say shit like that. Because then I don’t have to feel bad when I do something like _this_.”

                Before you can react, he’s on you, and oh, _oh_ , his tongue is _inside_ you and your head is reeling and you long to say something about disgusting lowblood depravity but all you cannot manage more than simple breathing and you have the dreadful feeling that you’re saying shockingly shameless things like _yes please more--_

                It’s almost like a bulge as it teases at the inside of you. But it _isn’t_ a bulge, and that makes all the difference as your nook clenches around him time and time again, searching for even a single drop of genetic material. You’re being filled but it isn’t _right_ , and every brush of his teeth against you reminds you even more that it’s not his bulge, but you can’t help the way it makes your entire body tense in the most perfect way. Your bulge aches where he has it trapped, and his tongue is inside you and he’ll force you to release this way and you can’t decide whether you love this or _loathe_ him more.

                A stray spark grounds itself inside of you, and that’s it, that’s too much, even without his material in your nook, and you manage to gasp, “ _Bucket—_ ”

                It clatters from his sylladex… and lands on the floor in front of your knees. You writhe in place, on the edge of release. He’ll move it. He will. Even he isn’t that depraved—Then you see the way he’s grinning at you, and yes, he is he’s that despicable and shameless and _horrible_ —

                He laughs as your material spatters to the floor. Your eyes are squeezed tight shut, but you can feel it soaking into your stockings. Your bulge _hurts_. Your sheath is stretched beyond what it can take, and he still refuses to release you. He knows, of _course_ he knows. He even prods at your stomach right over your sheath until you groan and try to jerk away.

                “I think that went well. And since you definitely have no needs left to be dealt with, it’s my turn, right?” His psi jerks your arms up, and he hauls your shirt off over your head. He pins your arms behind your back before tying your shirt tightly around them. “Now, you told me to program a robot. I have _so_ much respect for you that I’m just going to tell you to do one thing. Don’t tear this shirt. Think you can manage that?”

                When his psi releases you—but not your bulge— you nearly slump forward, but catch yourself before you can inadvertently rip the cloth. He grins at the expression on your face as he slips your glasses off. “One simple little task. Think you’re up to it?” Before you can reply, he jams his fingers into your mouth, buzzing with psionics. “Shhh, only bulge now.” He sniggers. “Well. Bulges.”

                He keeps his fingers hooked in your jaw as he strips his pants off one-handed. Both of his bulges are already fully unsheathed and you can see that his underwear is stained bright yellow. He steps closer, and you only have the time to take half a breath before he begins feeding you first one bulge, then the other. They spread your jaw wide as they twist down your throat. It isn’t long before you’re shifting uncomfortably, desperate for air, but entirely unwilling to tear your shirt to free yourself.

                You are just reaching the limits of what it is possible for you to endure when he finally pulls back. As you gasp for air, he moves his hands to your horns. He keeps his grip firm over your good horn, his thump digging rhythmically into your hornbed, but his other thumb keeps brushing _most_ painfully over your broken horn, and you shift in place, torn between the two sensations. When you have nearly caught your breath, he presses forward again, and his bulges crawl into your mouth.

                The two of you find a rhythm soon enough, although he never allows you quite as much air as you could want, and your sheath remains a constant ache where he has your bulge trapped. In retaliation, you work your tongue into the spaces between his bulges, and every so often, let your teeth scrape gently against him. His face turns an impressive shade of yellow as you lean forward and take him that smallest amount deeper.

                His breathing is growing ragged and you are attempting not to let your self-satisfaction show on your face when his control over his psi finally slips. Your bulge and material emerges all at once in a painful rush, and it feels almost like climax all over again. You jerk back from Sollux, and hear the fabric of your shirt begin to tear before you catch yourself. Your bulge is still twisting between your legs, sensitive and saturated and needing _more_. You shut your eyes and shiver in place and _ignore_ the way Sollux is laughing at you, because his breathing is still fast and shallow, and you _know_ you have affected him.

                After a moment, you manage, “Perhaps it is fortunate that you will never helm a starship, if this is the limit of the control you hold over your psionics.”

                His thumb digs unmercifully into your broken horn, and when you open your eyes he’s snarling down at you, sparking and speechless with rage. You smile.

                “As articulate as ever. Please, do warn me if you ever plan to refute my accusations in a meaningful way.”

                He pulls himself back under control within seconds, though he never stops glaring at you or throwing off little blue and red sparks. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you weren’t good enough to get me off with just your mouth. And why should I count on you for anything resembling skill when you have a nook sitting there just waiting for me to fuck it?”

                He tips you over backwards with a (psionically enhanced) shove, and you land uncomfortably on your arms. He’s on you in a flash, one bulge twisting up into your nook while he holds the other one free. “What do you think, EQ? Want to see if you can handle them both?”

                You’re torn. You can’t, _you can’t_ , but you absolutely _refuse_ to admit to him that there is anything you are unable to handle. He grins and pats your cheek, almost tenderly. “Oh, EQ. Too fragile to take it? Yeah, I’m _definitely_ no physical match for you.”

                He guides his free bulge to twine with yours. With him already inside you and with something for your bulge to coil around, you feel yourself almost on the point of release again. Even the barest traces of material on his bulge are enough to make your nook spasm. You arch up against him, and even without the bucket, you’re so close—

                He _pinches your bulge_. Your arms tear out of your shirt and you almost tear into _him_ , and catch yourself just in time. Instead you snarl at him and your claws gouge into the floor. He merely sniggers and presses down against you for a kiss. You are absolutely certain that this is the most loathsome troll ever hatched in the history of Alternia. Every time you get close, his claws dig into your bulge again. Well. If he isn’t planning to let you finish until he does, the clear solution is to force him to finish quickly.

                When you reach down between his legs and pull him more tightly against you, he hums against your lips. When your fingers find the edges of his nook, he pulls away to laugh breathlessly then bends back down to kiss you even harder. The two of you have your rhythm together, and you’re so close to release, and you’re nearly certain he’s as far gone as you are.

                All of a sudden, though, he pulls away entirely, and you’re pinned down again, unable to move. He rocks back on his heels, pushes his hair back out of his face, and reaches for the bucket. “Oh hey, what’s this this bucket doing here?” You are frozen. He wouldn’t. He runs his fingers through the material on your thighs, then presses them back between his own legs. You helplessly watch the wet slide of his fingers, his bulges coiled around his wrist, with slurry dripping down off his knuckles. Your nook is painfully empty, and you _need_ his material in you—

                “Sollux, don’t you dare—”

                Of course he dares. _Of course he does_. He releases down into the bucket, and you are just about ready to snap from the lack of his slurry inside you.

                He sniggers at you, his chest still heaving and flushed yellow all over as his bulges resheathe. “What, did _you_ want something?”

                You _absolutely refuse_ to dignify that with an answer. The pressure of his psi is still on you, holding you frozen, but your bulge is still twisting impatiently between your legs.

                “Here, why don’t I show you just how a real expert eats bulge?”

                Before you can tell him just what he can do with his offer, he’s on you, swallowing your bulge down in one smooth motion. It echoes up your spine every time he swallows around you, and as soon as his psionics release you, you’re writhing in place with one arm thrown over your eyes. Your bulge, your bulge feels perfect, but your nook is still an empty throb and even without his material, you need _something_ inside you. You try to reach down yourself but he slaps your hand away, and you almost sob with need. He reaches back between his own legs and presses forward again, three fingers at once, covered with his slurry, oh, _oh_ and the stretch and his material and your whole nook _clenches_ and when his fangs graze your bulge that’s it that’s too much and he lets you ride it out this time and you cry out and writhe, shaking with release.

                He pulls back as you try to regain your composure, and from under your arm you can see him watching you with a self-satisfied expression. Once your breathing has slowed, you rise to your knees and begin gathering up the shreds of your destroyed clothing with as much dignity as you can muster. Sollux sits back and just watches with an unjustifiably smug grin.

                You clear your throat and break the silence. “If I am correct, the purpose of this little diversion was to punish me for a perceived insult, and to prove your mental and physical superiority. I fail to see how this accomplished anything beyond that first goal.”

                When you see the glare he levels at you, you have to suppress your own smile. “If you can’t fucking see how I did _all three of those things_ , maybe there’s no hope for you after all.”

                “I simply refuse to admit you have conclusively proved your superiority in any way. Of course, I do not say that I cannot be _convinced_.” You clear your throat. “Perhaps after rehydrating.”

                He laughs. “Okay, rehydration first, because my kismesis is apparently a delicate fucking flower, and then I try convincing him again.” He pauses and regards you for a moment. “I wouldn’t bother getting dressed again if I were you.”


End file.
